


Infallible Data

by kaalee



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, First Time, Frottage, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-04
Updated: 2011-08-04
Packaged: 2017-10-22 05:36:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/234422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaalee/pseuds/kaalee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Observation is a way of life for Sherlock.  Observation of John Watson, however, is an entirely different affair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Infallible Data

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this to take a break from the long fic I've been writing for a while now. It was a welcome challenge to try to capture Sherlock's PoV for the first time. With many thanks to tjs_whatnot and sabrinaphynn for the beta work. ♥

Observation is a way of life for Sherlock. He has learned many (incalculable only because it did not occur to him to start keeping track until somewhere in the middle of his tenth year of life) valuable things through observation and experimentation. Until now, though, none of his observations have focused so closely on a single individual.

But John Watson is unique, indeed.

Months of observation have revealed innumerable things about John Watson (and have been heavily detailed and footnoted on his laptop). These enable Sherlock to respond in much more useful ways than he did in the beginning of their cohabitation (Sherlock still has the scar he received after misreading John in the fiasco with four jars of mini gherkins and some battery acid).

Several items from _watson_file.xls_ :

12\. Collar smartly pressed? He's worried about money (this is not to be confused with John's normal, ironed state. This is spray-starch, burn his fingers with precision ironing, John Watson-style).

37\. Fist clenching and unclenching? He's uncomfortable with the conversation.

104\. Lips pursed? John's holding tightly to his temper, possibly pressing his tongue against his teeth

Of course, Sherlock has yet to determine definite tongue placement from the set of his muscle, so he's still gathering data on the last one.

Those are three of the one hundred fifty-seven that are catalogued and cross-referenced on Sherlock's computer. If he were ever to show it to John -- which he won't -- he imagines John would be quite impressed with the detail and colour coding of it all. He doesn't show John, of course, because a) it's none of his business, and b) it would inevitably lead to another argument about Sherlock's lack of participation in what John refers to as "normal and everyday upkeep" or "his responsibility as a flat-mate" or even, "common courtesy."

No, there are far more useful ways to spend his time. John Watson is fascinating.

 

::

 

On a Tuesday in June, Sherlock examines the residue left after boiling tea leaves dry in several different substrates, making notes to himself on the time involved and the composition of the residue. He'll compile the results and text Lestrade with approximate times. He's certain the suspect is lying.

Sherlock frowns, wondering if he ought to repeat the experiment with various types of tea. Black tea is one thing, but it has a very different chemical make up than green or even white tea. As well, he's heard interesting things about rooibos, but he needs to do more research. He's not sure that is actually tea.

John pads downstairs on heavy feet (evidence of nightmares, number 41) and grunts a hello as he heads for the kettle, fills it with water, and flicks the switch. There's a rattle as he searches through the cupboards, then:

"Sherlock?"

"Mmm?"

"Where's the tea?"

"Tea?"

A sigh. "Tea. Yes. You know, leaves picked at the height of their life, fermented and dried and packed in wee bags so that the English can have a bit of civility in the afternoon when they'd be likely to strangle each other? I'm sure you've seen pictures."

(Sarcasm. Lack of sleep. Number 63.)

"Oxidized."

"What?"

"Oxidized. Not fermented, John. Obviously."

"I'm not in the mood for-- look, don't change the subject. Tea. Where is it?"

"We're out of tea."

"How can we be out of tea? I just picked up an entire box last week when I was at-- nevermind."

John sits heavily in the chair (the legs scrape the floor) and rubs his knee absently (the fabric rustles rhythmically) while he takes a deep breath. His leg obviously aches. (Absent massage. Fatigue. Number 25.)

"Forget it," John says quietly. "It's fine." (Resignation. Number 33.) "I'm going to have a shower."

While John showers (single tap used. Cold shower like he was used to in Afghanistan. Number 51.) Sherlock sends John a quick text and runs downstairs to Speedy's. There are only so many numbers John can go through before he becomes intolerable, and thus, not useful.

Tea and fifty-eight extra steps are a small price to pay when John gets like this.

Plus, Sherlock could really use a coffee.

 

::

 

Monday. No new cases, but a spirited debate on _The Science of Deduction_ about Sherlock's methods of deduction and whether they are possible or just a trick. He's rather enjoying dropping in with various pseudonyms to stir the pot a little, point out obvious characteristics of some of the participants, and throw in some wildly inaccurate ones to see how they'll react.

John bangs into the room, calls out a clipped "hello," and marches up the stairs. He's back in less than a minute, carrying a wrapped bundle with him and striding with purpose into the sitting room. He sits heavily down and unwraps his Browning and a small leather kit with several brushes, picks, oil and two cloths.

Sherlock knows John hasn't used his gun since the last time (Waterloo Tube Station. Escaped art thief. Successful chase.) and he's meticulous about cleaning it after use.

Ahhh, yes. Cleaning his gun. (Bad day. Number 67.) Obvious.

He watches John work (frowning, painstaking, squinting at the tiny parts). The lines around John's mouth are tight and he heels off his shoes unconsciously. His sock-covered toes grip the rug beneath the table. Sherlock watches John from head to toe: the taut lines of his shoulders, the forty-five degree angle made by the line of his torso connecting with his thighs. The lines of hard muscle down his forearms contract and relax as if to music. He swallows every two minutes or so.

Sherlock's mind swims with data. He could contentedly fill entire libraries of bound journals with observations, with notes, and all about John Watson.

It takes John seventeen minutes and forty-three seconds to finish his task, clean his tools and return them to the kit. When he glances down at his shoeless feet, annoyance, instead of amusement, shines in his eyes.

"I'm going to have a shower," he announces.

It must be bad.

It is. (Two taps used. Hot shower. Bad day at work. Number 46. When he cleans his gun followed by a hot shower, it's been a particularly appalling shift at the surgery, as previously mentioned. Number 68.)

Sherlock's data is infallible.

 

::

 

Thursday. A surprisingly clever puzzle posted to the forums of his website and a minor case that Lestrade has sent via password protected email. Sherlock is about a quarter of the way through the puzzle and has just started on the case (email to Lestrade on details he neglected to mention: colour of the nail varnish? location of the blender? hair parted on the left or right?).

John pounds up the stairs and skips the main floor entirely in lieu of his bedroom upstairs. When he enters the sitting room with a familiar bundle, Sherlock raises his eyebrow. Twice in one week? Highly unlikely.

John hasn't said a word. (Intense self-control. Number 31.)

"John?"

"Sherlock, I'm fine."

(Lying. Extremely tense. Number 94.)

The gun cleaning takes a little over fifteen minutes this time (Sherlock neglected to look at the clock exactly when it started as he was caught off guard by John's acquisition of the gun so soon after the last time. The timing is imprecise (he cannot add this data to the spreadsheet) and is marked only by John's long breaths. His shoes come off in the fourteenth minute (as far as Sherlock can tell) and the lines around his mouth tighten in exactly the same pattern as they did on Monday.

When the ritual comes to a close and John re-wraps everything into a neat and orderly package, Sherlock feels a strange tightness in his chest. He knows what's coming next.

"I'm going to have a shower."

Except.

"John."

"Sherlock."

"But, Joh--"

"Not right now, Sherlock. I'm not in a mood." His voice is a warning. John pads through the kitchen and down the short corridor to the bathroom.

Sherlock steeples his fingers, touches them to his lower lip. He's actually rather intrigued about what, exactly, is going to happen next. Sherlock flicks a glance over to his laptop. He rather suspects he'll be adding a bit more data tonight.

 

::

 

Sherlock pictures John standing, his feet defiantly spread on the mat, and glaring at the taps, trying to will them into compliance. It'll probably take him about five and a half minutes until he gives up and--

"Sherlock?"

Well, that was rather a bit quicker than he expected. Sherlock looks up at John, his chest bare, his hand clutching a towel slung around his waist.

"Yes?"

"Is there any reason the taps for the bath are turned off?"

"Hmm?"

John swallows, tucks his tongue up between his upper lip and front teeth for a moment (number 74. Extreme annoyance. But his stance is new. This will be a new entry. Number 158.)

"So, might you have an explanation -- and I fully suspect that you do -- for the fact that each of the four times I've tried the taps they've yielded no water?"

Sherlock watches John, looking him over as he speaks. This is exactly the third time John has appeared less than fully clothed in front of Sherlock, and the first two were in the hospital in the aftermath of some unfortunate directions of a couple of cases, far beyond his control. This is far better. The scar on his shoulder is dark, raised, and absolutely fascinating. Sherlock has no idea what sort of bullet could have caused John's injury; John's too far away. He will have to investigate further.

John has surprisingly dark hair under his navel, gathering in a neat triangle and trailing downward. There's a slight softness to his lower belly, and the muscles in his legs are starkly defined. Sherlock finds himself drawn to the contour of John's collarbones, this vision of skin and bone he's never afforded through John's conservatively buttoned wardrobe. They form the most fascinating shape, with sharp peaks on the inner edges that look almost like the points in well-beaten egg whites.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"The _water_."

"The water's turned off."

"Turned off or... ?"

"They had to turn the water off."

"Because you ..."

"Because I was using acid and the pipes were rather a bit older than I'd suspected. They didn't react in the way I'd predicted."

"So there's no way to have--"

"There's no water at all. All the taps have been turned off."

John takes a long, deep breath. Then another. His gaze shifts up to the ceiling and then around the sitting room. The knot above his eyes deepens (Tension. Anger. Multiple sources. Number 23.) and he nods once.

"Alright then."

Turning abruptly, John heads for the stairs. The towel flickers open as he turns and Sherlock sees the long lines of muscle along John's thighs, the unexpectedly lovely curve where his left buttock folds into his thigh.

Sherlock's left wondering about every other line of John's body, wants to learn them with his fingertips, then transfer the knowledge, fingerprint by memorised fingerprint, onto his laptop for safekeeping.

 

::

 

John reappears, fully clothed and visibly tense. He sighs in exasperation when he turns on the tap to fill the kettle and nothing comes out, bangs some dishes around, then comes out to collapse in his chair and flick on the telly.

Sherlock watches him through all of this, as he types a (fourth) email to Lestrade and adds a twist to the puzzle posted on his website (he solved the original twelve minutes after it was posted).

John shifts in his chair, scratches his neck absently more than once, and frowns at the telly whenever an advert interrupts the loud explosions of the (predictable, monotonous, clearly American-made) movie.

During the third interruption for a new flavour of toothpaste, John shakes his head and turns off the telly, tossing the remote control to the floor.

"I'm going to bed," he growls.

Sherlock nods as John pushes himself out of his chair and stalks toward the staircase.

Very tense.

Interesting.

Sherlock knows of at least thirty-four ways to relieve tension, but there are few venues for most of them here in their flat. He could really use another perspective on the case Lestrade sent. Even though John doesn't solve the cases, his questions, the ability to talk aloud to someone that will speak (mostly) intelligently back is invaluable. But John isn't going to be in any state to help out right now, not when he's this tense.

Good thing Sherlock has alternative means to achieve that end.

 

::

 

He pads quietly into John's room, the ties of his dressing gown dragging on the floor, a bit louder than he expected. He drops the dressing down to the floor and plops himself down on John's bed.

"Sherlock?" (Deceptively controlled voice. Uncertain. Number 59.)

Sherlock touches John's shoulder lightly, slides two fingers over his collarbone.

" _What_ are you doing?"

"I thought that much was obvious. I'm here to help you get off."

Sherlock can hear John's eyelashes rapidly brush his lower eyelids. (Dumbfounded. Number 84.)

"I'm sorry - what in the hell did you just say?"

"You are very clearly tense, so tense that you needed a hot shower, which you couldn't have. Orgasms are a proven technique for releasing tension. I find you extremely physically appealing and I would very much like to suck you off."

"Christ. Christ, Sherlock." John swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing almost deliberately up and then down. "You can't just - say things like that."

"Why ever not?"

"Because..."

Sherlock waits. There's no more to John's argument.

"A single word doesn't quite make your case, John."

"I'm not really sure there's a case that needs to be - uh, made, here," John says as he pushes himself up slowly. His eyes flick down to Sherlock's hand, still on John's shoulder, to the visible skin at Sherlock's throat, then up to rest on his mouth. (This is new. Sherlock has approximately fourteen entries categorising John's eye contact, but not one that describes any investigation of Sherlock's body itself.)

Hmm... what if...?

Sherlock pulls lightly on the soft cotton of his own loose tee shirt; John's eyes follow every inch of movement, of bared skin, then flicker quickly back to Sherlock's eyes again.

"You're interested."

"I'm..." John swallows.

Interesting. John has never once looked Sherlock over, has always kept his eyes firmly trained on Sherlock's face. It's deliberate, then. John hasn't allowed himself to think about something he believed he couldn't have.

John tries again. "I, uh, didn't know _you_ were interested."

(Changing the subject. Number 16. Uncomfortable.)

"I'd have thought that was glaringly obvious from my actions just now and the fact that I offered to help get you off."

" _Sherlock._ "

This time it's no more than a whisper, but desperate, wanting. Sherlock can feel it like a gust of warm air that precedes a storm. He slides downward a bit, watching John's eyes. They're about eight inches apart now, both braced on their elbows. He can see John holding his breath, still very tense.

Leaning forward, Sherlock whispers back.

"John. Let me touch you."

Then everything is a blur of a moment as John lets out a strangled groan and pushes through the microchasm between them, wrapping one hand around Sherlock's head and pulling their lips together frantically. It's messy, wet, electric... a glorious puzzle Sherlock doesn't want to solve. Sherlock's mind swims with adjectives all ending with John: beautiful, curious, fascinating John. He wants to lick his way inside to John's thoughts and carry away the tension that holds his body.

John falls back onto the pillow, pulling Sherlock with him, but never once letting their lips slide too far apart. His eyes are shut, eyelashes brushing his lower lid. Sherlock wants to count them, examine them under a microscope. Are they all the same colour, or a variation like the multihued hair on his head?

When their kiss breaks, John visibly relaxes, sighs contentedly as their lips slide apart and traces the back of Sherlock's neck idly with his fingertips.

Sherlock laves his tongue over John's collarbone and John sucks his breath, arches his chest upward. He finds it oddly endearing that John is always buttoned and dressed with precision, but he wears a threadbare, shrunken tee shirt to sleep in.

When John slides his hands down Sherlock's back and under his tee shirt, touching Sherlock's skin with his warm fingertips, Sherlock changes his mind. He decides he doesn't give a toss about any stitch of John's clothing and would much rather see him completely bare. John kneads the muscle at Sherlock's lower back, digging his thumbs in and leaning up to lick across Sherlock's upper lip. Sherlock just sighs into it, feeling his muscles cry out for that experienced touch.

"Are you trying to take care of me, Doctor?" he asks with a grin.

"Always," John breathes.

Sherlock's heart tightens dangerously in his chest.

He lets his body drop, shifting until he's lying fully on top of John, thighs and stomachs touching. John lets out a moan and Sherlock swallows it down, wrapping one arm under John's good shoulder and kissing him deeply.

John arches up against him and both bodies jerk as their hips come into firm, desperate contact. They both gasp and there's a quick flurry of activity as they sit up, tearing at tee shirts and loose trousers until there's only skin, skin, skin, John against Sherlock in the most perfect way.

When they lie back down, it's a tangle of elbows and abdomens until they're together again, side by side, and John is breathing into his ear, gasping and whispering as Sherlock traces the lines of John's jaw, his neck, his chest with the very tip of his tongue.

"God, Sherlock, oh god."

He ingests every word, savours it like someone might a great wine. Words from John Watson's lips are meant to be memorised.

They rock together, Sherlock's leg over John's, his foot braced on John's steady calf. Then John's mouth is on his again, kissing with lips and tongues and teeth until Sherlock's lips tingle with sensation.

"Christ, Sherlock, you have no idea - I've ... I could just-" he breaks off suddenly, pushing Sherlock onto his back and sliding on top of him, kneeling astride Sherlock's hips and capturing his wrists with his hands.

"You're just so-"

John's broken words could be dangerous -- probably are dangerous -- but Sherlock wants them all.

"Tell me," he gasps, "anything, everything."

John presses Sherlock's wrists above his head, holds them there. He leans down, dragging his cock alongside Sherlock's and rocking his hips slowly. Sherlock's vision flutters and he wills his eyes back open, looks at John. His eyes are the deepest, most stunning blue he's ever paid attention to and he wonders if the colour of John's eyes can possibly be represented by a single hexadecimal code.

"God, Sherlock, I want you _so badly_ , I can't even..."

With every slide of John's hips Sherlock just swims in sensation. His heart swells, so full, so full of this man that he wants to learn everything about, that he wants to know and hold and taste and adore. It's sudden, this desire that's unfurled inside him and filled him to bursting in the matter of only a few moments.

He, oddly enough, doesn't want to question right now, only wants to feel. Sherlock wants to learn every inch and speck of John until even the shape of his DNA makes sense.

John is panting into his ear now, broken syllables and half-words, and it fills his ears like he's underwater in an empty pool. Sherlock twists his wrists slightly, wraps his hands around John's wrists until they're grasping each other in an inverted figure eight. John is so beautiful like this: beads of sweat dotting his back, wet tendrils of hair at his temples.

"John," Sherlock whispers. "John, John... _John._ "

He rocks upward against John's body, shifts his hips until their cocks are aligned from root to tip and throws his head back when John opens his throat and moans hoarsely. Everything about this is unexpected and new and so entirely right that Sherlock is going to need a new hard drive to keep track of it all.

Stretching one of his legs outward, Sherlock curls it around John's leg, presses his knee against the tight, contracting muscle of John's buttocks and rocks into every movement. Sparks flash behind his eyes, every beautiful word falling from John's lips splits apart into single letters that float in the air above them, arranging and rearranging and filling the air with data he can breathe right in.

God, he's close. He's--

"Christ, Sherlock," John whispers. "So bloody gorgeous... you feel _so good_ , I can't even."

John pulls his lips stickily away from Sherlock's throat, though Sherlock can still feel the pressure, and he lifts his head enough to look at Sherlock. His eyes are hooded, dark... so hungry. Sherlock's stomach whirls with it. He's never seen this look before, but were he to rank them, this would surely top the list. Sherlock feels like the centre of John's universe, like the eye of the storm.

 _Please_ , Sherlock thinks. Then: _yes_ and _oh_. He's never begged, never wanted anything in his life so great as he wants John.

Sherlock feels John's buttocks tense under his knee, his eyelids flutter and John's lower lip hangs open. His eyes widen, then shut for a moment and a string of words tumble from his lips:

"Oh god, _oh yes,_ please... oh--"

Sherlock feels a rush of wet warmth spread between them as John's body shudders and lets go. He releases one of John's wrists, dragging his hand over John's back, holding him there, _right there_ , as he--

oh god.

as he-

John pants above him, his eyes molten and soft, and he gasps, "oh god, _Sherlock_..."

And Sherlock's eyes go blank. Colors flash behind them: whites, purples, blues, and he has no idea what words fall from his lips, only that he feels like everything is erupting from him at once. Shuddering, Sherlock scores his nails down John's back, then up, up to cup his skull tightly. He kisses John until he is breathless and replete with joy.

"That," Sherlock says quietly when their lips have stopped, but have barely parted, "was amazing."

John beams at him.

He moves off Sherlock and pats around blindly for something behind him, grabbing his discarded tee shirt and mopping both of their stomachs and chests with it. Then he settles down, facing Sherlock and traces his hairline, still watching his eyes, but moving, at times, to look over the full expanse of Sherlock's body appreciatively.

"You know," he whispers, "I'm not quite sure you're forgiven for getting the water shut off."

Sherlock grins at him. "Just add it to the list. Though," he grins, "you might want to avoid putting all of the details of this particular offence of mine onto your blog, lest you give your readers even more cause to speculate over the nature of our relationship."

John snorts. He licks his lip, then slides forward just a little until Sherlock can feel his breath.

"Fair point. Sometimes, I guess, you do have some useful ideas."

Then Sherlock is the one pushing forward, kissing John's soft, warm lips and making a mental note to ask Mrs. Hudson to get the pipes fixed as soon as possible. He'd quite like to see John's body under the shower. His body warms with that mental image, and he keeps his eyes open, watching the subtle changes of John's face as he kisses enthusiastically back.

They kiss until Sherlock's jaw aches pleasantly and John's eyes start to droop.

 

::

 

Sherlock awakens with the first light and sighs happily. He has (at least) seventeen new rows to add to his spreadsheet and enough new data to start a brand new file.

John huffs once in sleep and nuzzles Sherlock's shoulder absently. His breath gusts over Sherlock's skin, spreading outward until the hairs on his arm are at full attention. A warm tingle spreads through his belly and he pulls the sheet up to their chests with a smile, moving just a little bit closer. To John.

Perhaps the spreadsheet can wait until the afternoon.

 

::

 

~thank you so much for reading! ♥


End file.
